


nail polish

by socorro



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Coming Out, Crushes, Fluff, Gen, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, but that's it, one instance of a homophobic slur, the whole gang will show up eventually, they're 3rd years now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 11:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17917622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socorro/pseuds/socorro
Summary: abe wears nail polish and the consequences are more than he expects.





	nail polish

**Author's Note:**

> i can't sleep so here's a fic i've been sitting on for a while. i'm hoping to add more later but we'll see how it goes. enjoy u_u

The first time Abe tries it, he’s at the dining table. His dad and brother are watching TV and his Mom has just starting in on dinner. He’s got a bright white bottle of nail polish and a napkin tucked underneath his left hand. He shakes the bottle, unscrews the cap and slowly, slowly makes the first swipe. It’s cold against his nail. He miscalculates the second stroke and brushes messily all over his cuticle. By the time he gets to his pinky he’s considerably better but each finger before looks like a baby playing with paint for the first time. Abe frowns down at the final results.

“Mom,” he calls and holds up his hand as she turns around. She bursts into laughter and Abe snickers as she tells him to show his dad. He pads out into the living room to wave his fingers at his dad and gets much the same reaction. 

As the stew simmers, Abe’s mom herds him back to the kitchen table with a bottle of nail polish remover and cotton balls. The smell makes him scrunch up his nose as she wipes his fingers clean and applies a fresh coat. She picks up each finger and neatly covers his nails with only a few precise strokes, mumbling something about cuticles under her breath. It’s been a long time since he’s sat down and let his mom do something for him like this. It makes him feel small again and it’s a little surreal, seeing how tiny her hands are next to his now. 

“There,” she says, satisfied as she finishes his pinky. The pure white is blinding against his skin. She blows on his nails a few times before capping the nail polish and swiping away the mess of cotton balls. 

When he shows up at practice the next morning a first year is the first to notice.

“What happened to you,” he snickers, nodding at his hand. Abe looks down at his fingers like he’s never seen them before and shrugs. “Thought I’d try it.”

They get out on the field for warm ups and stretches. Mihashi is the next to notice. Abe lets him hold his hand and examine the bright nails. He feels heat prickle at the back of his neck at the careful touch. Abe should be used to this by now with the years of almost daily interaction between them. But here, shrouded in weak early morning light and surrounded by the sleepy routine of his teammates, it feels precious like so many other moments. 

“It’s pretty,” Mihashi tells him finally. 

Abe’s never had the word pretty thrown his way. People stopped giving Abe compliments around the age he grew too big to be cute. It’s surprisingly nice to hear.

He murmurs a thank you and watches the other’s downturned face. He takes in long, pale eyelashes against sunburned skin, the soft curve of his nose and plush slope of his lips. The only thing that crosses Abe’s mind in that moment is that Mihashi is _attractive_. Undeniably so. He’s grown up and grown into himself so well, still baby-faced but with definition in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Skinnier than Abe and with lean muscles and strong arms built through years of practice. He blinks and looks at his own hand in Mihashi’s, just a little smaller against long, thin fingers. 

Tajima and Hanai meander closer to peek at his nails. Hanai leaves without much of a reaction. Tajima _oohs_ and _ahs_ loudly enough to draw a few more curious bodies closer.

After practice Abe asks Mihashi what he thought. He doesn’t seem to feel too strongly one way or another but the word _pretty_ pops up again. It’s flattering but unhelpful so Abe turns to the reserve pitchers and first years to get more concrete feedback. He decides to keep it for a while.

 

 

 

 

He’s at the kitchen table again. This time with a neon orange color gifted to him by Shinooka. _For school spirit_ , she’d smiled. He’s on his second coat when his dad walks in.

“That again,” he says. And something in those words makes Abe look up. His dad is eyeing his nails with clear distaste in the slant of his eyebrows and curve of his lips. Abe’s heart _sinks_ , sudden and jarring, then starts to beat so fast he feels lightheaded. He knows what that look is. Has gotten it from kids at school a few times since he’s started this. 

Abe tears his gaze away and sticks the wand back into the bottle, missing a few times before he aims it right. 

“Yea,” he swallows, dips the brush in and out before going for his next nail. “It helps with signs.”

His dad hums and moves to refill his cup from the fridge. “Seems like you did fine without it.”

“Yea,” Abe says again, voice tight, and tries to ignore the shake in his right hand. “The first years like it. Says it helps.” His dad just nods and moves back to the living room. Abe finishes his nails and stares at the vibrant orange. They’re not as neat as usual.

He thinks about all the things his dad doesn’t know about him and wonders what kind of face he’d make if he did.

 

 

 

 

It draws a lot more attention than Abe expected.

In class, Abe would absently look around only to notice a stray gaze on his hands, or a quick jerk of movement as someone hurriedly looks away. During one break, a few girls corner him to ask questions and giggle. Saying things about how it’s nice to see a guy confident in his own masculinity and stuff about gender and society. The looks some boys throw at him are a mix between judgmental and guarded and outright hostile. It all makes Abe uncomfortable. He can be loud and blistering and angry on the field, but outside of those moments he’s not the type to invite much attention. That’s more Tajima’s game. Even Mihashi with all his flustering and anxiety is somehow more social than Abe these days. He’s seen how the pitcher virtually preens when all eyes are on him.

Abe’s passion bubbles and boils for his sport and not much else. He never meant for this to be a statement and Abe finds it endlessly frustrating to find everyone latching onto his nails like it says something about him. That others seem to take it as an open invitation to comment on Abe’s life. Fuck that.

 

 

 

 

Momokan approaches him after a late practice and nods towards his hand. 

“Do you plan on wearing that for the next game?”

“Ah,” Abe blinks, caught off guard. This is the first time she’s brought any attention to it. “Is that – Would it be allowed?”

Momoe crosses her arms with a frown. “Well, it’s not against regulation. Technically there should be no problems but it depends on who’s officiating. There’s a chance someone might call it out.”

Abe scratches at the chipped paint of one finger with his thumbnail and shrugs. He’d checked the handbooks before starting this whole thing, scored it to make sure it wasn’t against school dress code or game regulation. 

“I can take it off for official games,” Abe says.

“Okay,” Momokan replies and her smile has a regretful tilt to it. Abe shuffles as something uncomfortable prickles just under his skin. _Everyone’s reading too much into this_ , he thinks bitterly and not for the first time. He’s sure Momokan is. Or maybe she’s reading just the right amount. Both possibilities spark his nerves in a way that’s becoming increasingly common but no less heart pounding.

“Thank you,” she says finally and Abe brings his gaze back to her. “Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Abe gives a stilted bow and jogs towards the dugout to gather his things.

 

 

 

 

“I’m too old to have you following me around like this,” Shun mumbles grumpily. A quiet swish of automatic doors and cool air greet them as they meander into the convenient store. Abe just smirks. His little brother groans and disappears down an aisle.

Abe is on a self-imposed mission to try every variety of granola bar available. So he dutifully crouches down to take in his options. He settles on an apricot almond bar with cacao and… hemp? He flips the package over. Yes, with hemp seeds. Huh. Shrugging, Abe drags himself away from the aisle, bar in hand, to find Shun with his head stuck in a freezer.

“Do you want lime?” He asks when he notices Abe approaching. 

“Depends. Are you paying?”

Shun shoots him a glare that’s largely ineffective through the frosty haze of the glass door. He picks up a lime popsicle and a colorful cartoon inspired one and lets the door slap shut behind him. Abe follows him to the register. Shun piles his snacks onto the counter and quietly snags Abe’s granola bar to merge with his haul. Abe holds back a smile and watches as his brother pays for all the items. When they leave the heat wraps around them like a blanket, suffocating and thick. It reminds him of summer practices, of too many days spent under the hot sun and the camaraderie that arises from group suffering. 

“What are you smiling about,” Shun asks as he shoves Abe’s popsicle at him.

“Nothing,” Abe chimes, tearing into his treat.

Shun’s reveals a disturbing abomination that holds no resemblance to the character on the package. The colors bleed messily into each other, eyes malformed and uneven.

“Is that supposed to be-“ Abe squints at the crumpled packaging, 

“Sonic?”

“Gotta go fast,” Shu quips.

“He went too fast.”

They both break into stifled laughter.

It’s a small thing, what happens next. Inconsequential. They stand at a crosswalk, streets clear but in no hurry to jaywalk. A trio of kids approach. Abe pays them no mind as they pass. Then, right before they part ways, a harsh whisper is tossed in his direction.

“ _Faggot_ ,” it says. Like it’s the worst piece of profanity in their arsenal. Loud snickers follow, sharp and mean.

Shun looks stunned, staring after the group in shock. Abe doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look back or give whatever reaction they were trying to evoke but his mind reels with it. What is everyone _seeing_? He feels his jaw tick as he clenches his teeth. Was it just his nails? Was there something suggestive about the way he ate? 

Was it just him? The way he held himself, the way he acted? God, this was irritating. It was ridiculous. It was _nothing_ , yet the moment crawls under his skin and settles there, vile and unwanted.

The light changes and he takes off across the street. Anger builds on top of frustration, as choking as the heat around them. It burns and urges his feet into a pace that Shun eventually gives up trying to match. He throws the popsicle out at the next trashcan, fingers sticky. He was sick of this. Tired of letting these small moments get to him and tired of pretending that they didn’t. He’d come to terms with himself a long time ago. Even before Haruna. Before the undeniable attraction he felt beneath stinging bruises and blinding, hopeless frustration. Before Mihashi and his stuttering boldness and quiet strength and quirky oddness. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way it’s like all the progress he’s ever made has been erased. 

He reaches their front door and forces himself to wait for Shun to catch up. Barging in alone would only raise concern that Abe has no energy to address. When his little brother finally arrives, his mouth is stained blue and his brows are bunched up in a way Abe recognizes well. Before the younger can get a word out, Abe stalks into the house, past the kitchen, and directly to his room. He shuts the door behind him and drops onto the edge of his bed with a deep sigh. He leans over until his elbows are on his knees and his head in his hands.

A sudden, overwhelming tightness fills his throat so he darts back up, paces his room in sharp circles as he swallows against the emotion threatening to burst through.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fucking stop.”

He tries to think logically about everything.

Abe knows that he passes easily. He knows that he’s encouraged it. Between his personality and his look it’s easy to make assumptions about him that Abe’s always allowed without comment. But now his dad, his classmates, even some of his teammates look at him like he’s something other and it-

He curses and grabs his phone, not sure what he’s searching for. Before he realizes it, he’s staring down at Mihashi’s name on the screen. He opens their messages.

(13:07) Are you home? Can I come over?

He presses send before he can think too hard about it and tosses his phone across his bed. Mihashi is notoriously bad at texting so it’s a surprise when his phone buzzes less than ten minutes later.

(13:14) i’m home!  
(13:14) u can come over!  
(13:15) yuu-kun is here too :)

When he leaves he can feel Shun’s eyes on him all the way out the door.

 

 

 

 

Despite how much closer they’ve become, this is still abnormal. Abe doesn’t ask to come over with no excuse of baseball or homework or a special occasion. His hopes that the pitcher wouldn’t notice anything are crushed almost as soon as he opens the door. Mihashi greets him and lets him in. He stands close as Abe removes his shoes and jacket.

“Um,” Mihashi says. They’re both still crowded in the doorway and Abe feels Mihashi’s gaze heavy on his face. “Are- are you okay?”

Abe stares at him, at the concern bright in his eyes. His heart flops pathetically in his chest. The familiar feeling is exhausting.

“Yea,” he responds automatically. Mihashi’s eyebrows bunch up and he leans further forward, unconvinced.

“Are you sure? You look-“ he makes a vague sound in the back of his throat. “Did something – happen?”

“I’m fine, Mihashi,” Abe says, firmly enough that Mihashi doesn’t follow up with any more questions. But there’s undeniable concern that remains on his face.  


Later, Tajima stands to beg for snacks from Mihashi’s mom and Mihashi pounces almost as soon as the other boy leaves the room.

“Abe-kun?”

Abe looks up at the soft call of his name.

Mihashi bites his lips, reluctance flickering across his face, before he sits up straighter and leans forward across the little table they were seated at. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks softly.

Abe sighs and Mihashi’s face adopts this half indignant, half concerned look. “I j-just. Want to make sure,” Mihashi says. “That you’re - alright?”

Abe shakes his head. “It’s nothing, okay?”

Mihashi frowns. He reaches across the little table and curls their fingers together until Abe’s are clasped in a tight grip. It’s a wordless gesture of support, an act they continued long after it phased out from the rest of the team. Maybe it was the fact that Abe was close to the edge already once that day. Maybe it was just Mihashi, comforting and compassionate and everything he needed in that moment. Something finally breaks and Abe finds himself curled over the table with hot tears in his eyes. Mihashi makes an alarmed sound and jerks closer.

“A-Abe – oh no – please don’t cry!”

He squeezes Abe’s hand more tightly, desperate to give comfort.

“Oh Abe… what’s wrong? Please.“

Abe covers his face with his free hand, embarrassment as hot and choking as the sob he bites back. The sound escapes anyways, sharp and ugly. It inspires another round of frantic words from Mihashi. Abe let’s the earnest, stammering concern wash over him. Tries to collect himself and fails.

Tajima comes back, arms laden with snacks, and freezes at the scene before him with eyes wide as saucers. 

“Yuu-kun,” Mihashi calls, voice watery. It sounds like he’s on the edge of tears because _of course_ he is. It’s always like this between them. They’re both sympathy criers. “Wh-what should I d-do?”

Tajima stands in the doorway for a few more stunned seconds before darting forward. He slides the tray jerkily on the table, drinks threatening to spill over.

“Abe?”

He sounds stunned, voice more unsure than Abe’s ever heard it.  
It jolts Abe into action. He swipes at his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing into something that’s not quite so wrecked.

“Sorry,” he gasps as the first wave of embarrassment hits him.

He has to tug on Mihashi’s hand twice before he lets go. 

“D-don’t apologize! It’s –“ he cuts off to sniff loudly. Abe gathers the courage to look up and sees Mihashi’s face splotchy red and eyes wet with tears.

“Oh, my god. Please stop,” Tajima begs, eyes darting between the two of them. “What is going on?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just-“ Abe makes a vague gesture that doesn’t register with anyone in the room. “Nothing.”

They’re both unconvinced. Tajima’s got that hard look in his eyes that he gets sometimes.

“It’s not nothing,” Tajima insists. “People have been giving you shit lately and it’s bullshit!”

Abe sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yuu, don’t,” Mihashi scolds.

“No, it’s stupid! You’re not doing anything wrong, Abe. Nothing.” 

Abe stands up so quick that the table kicks, heart beating.

“Wait!” Mihashi grabs his arm as if he were ready to bolt out the door. Abe’s not too sure he wasn’t. Instead of making him sit back down, Mihashi leads them out into the hallway. Abe wishes he could deny the way his heart beats when the other steps closer, but he can’t. He takes a half step back but Mihashi catches him up in a hug anyways. His arms wrap around Abe’s middle in an embrace that’s soft and barely there until Abe curls forwards and hugs him back.

He squeezes more tightly and Abe just holds on, overwhelmed. 

His pitcher, so willing to cry for him. He thinks about those middle school years, the details of which Abe has gleaned more of over the past few years. He thinks about how being able to survive that— to heal and move on and come out a better person– how that takes strength. Yet here’s Abe, shaken apart by a few weeks of scant looks and comments.

They stay embraced for longer than Abe would normally allow and it’s nice and it makes Abe’s heart rip in two.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Mihashi says after a long moment, “but it’ll be okay.” 

“Okay?” Mihashi asks. They pull apart and Abe misses the warmth immediately. They’re about the same height still. But Abe knows Mihashi will likely grow taller than him some day soon.  
“Okay,” Abe agrees.

 

 

That night, Shun knocks on his door. He passes the granola bar.  
“I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Those kids were stupid.” He says it all in a hurry like he’s afraid Abe will stop him.

Abe sighs, turns the bar over in his hands before tearing it open. He takes a bite and it’s maybe the worst flavor he’s tried yet.  
“Like, it’s just nail polish. It’s just for catching, right?”  
Abe leans back and considers. Shun is digging. Not in a cruel way, Abe recognizes, just in that greedy little brother way. Like he wants to be the first to know about something and wants to know it straight from the source.

“Yea,” Abe says.

“Yea! And like, the pros do it. Well, some pros. Over in America. But it’s still not a big deal. And it doesn’t make you gay.” He stops there for a second before hurrying to add, “Being gay isn’t a big deal either! Like, who cares?”

Abe waits for the earlier panic to return but is surprised to find nothing. It’s late, he’s exhausted and he can’t find the energy to care anymore. It’ll probably come in the morning.

“Yea,” he says finally. “Nothing bad about either.”

Shun frowns and Abe can see the moment he decides to fuck it and bulldoze ahead.

“I’m not gay,” Abe says. Shun’s eyes widen, he shuts his mouth and nods.

“Oh,” he says and suddenly seems very embarrassed. “Okay.”

He sure as hell isn’t straight either. It’s just- he’s not interested in coming out. Not in this moment. Not in any moment. He doesn’t know what he is. Has suffered and agonized over it for years and has still been unable to pinpoint it. 

He holds out the granola bar. “Do you want this?”

“Not after that face you made,” Shun complains but takes it anyways and stomps out of Abe’s room. 

 

 

He paints his nails a bright, vibrant blue. Fuck those fucking kids.


End file.
